


To The Marrow In 'Em Bones

by SmallTownBard



Series: Of startling joys and kind misfortunes [2]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Clueless gays, Daydreaming, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Fluff with a very little plot, Friendship/Love, Introspection, JK they are completely gone on each other they are just, M/M, Mostly it's just Snufkin having emotions (TM), Pre-Relationship, Snufkin is a sap and Moomintroll is too good for a poor fellow to function, Springdove, Tenderness, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:15:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallTownBard/pseuds/SmallTownBard
Summary: ...in which Snufkin takes little misfortunes and makes them into something useful, and Moomin has a nice afternoon.





	To The Marrow In 'Em Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Concept: Snufkin gathers inspiration from the strangest encounters.
> 
> Title taken from Agnes Obel's song _Riverside_. 
> 
> TW: A distant notion of drowning.

The water was crystal clear with an emerald sheen; the rocks, logs, plants, and precisely one lone garden chair at the bottom of the pond perfectly visible through the surface. 

It was also terribly cold. Snufkin would know, because Snufkin fell in it. 

The time stood still as the boy was currently locked in the moment of Small Death. The world idly passed him by in those very precise few seconds between the misfortune and the recovery, when the shock from the fall itself started to fade into comprehension but one did not yet have the mind to act. Snufkin drifted in those narrow few seconds, wholly submerged by the freezing emerald water, scarf and a green coat flowing around his body like the colorful fins of a beta fish, and dazedly watched the lean water plants dance. They were awfully mesmerizing, he thought. Up close, he could see small rainbow fish swim between the stems and the gravel, looking for food. The garden chair, a faded green-yellow striped thing that probably used to be white in structure but was now an interesting mix of chipped paint, black spots of raw steel and a dark orange of bleeding corrosion, served as a strange monument of smallest glory, nested comfortably in the middle of rocks and plants as though it belonged there.

As if someone lived there, underwater, with fish for pets and this was their garden. Snufkin distantly felt like he was intruding on something private.

Even so, he enjoyed the poetic sight. An underwater garden. A mermaid garden, perhaps. Or maybe an odd wassermann liked to spend his days lounging in a garden chair, basking in the rare pale sunbeams that reached the bottom. Or perhaps a lonely rusalka, one who tired of guiding stray travelers into lakes and chose to spend her days here instead. Snufkin knew that Moomin would adore that story. Even more than that, Moomin would adore the utter mystery of a single garden chair at the bottom of a mountain pond. Oh, he would probably make up an elaborate detective theory on how it got there, too - he took very much after his father in that matter. Snufkin felt a small swell of pride at the notion of his best friend's earnest nature.

The passing of Snufkin's instance to ponder was announced by a sharp, white flesh of light behind his eyes and a painful convulsion of his rib cage that made his legs kick out and his arms move, quite without his conscious thought but also free of his protests. Fearful awareness flooded him that he was choking. His head broke the surface with a loud, resonating gasp, and for a little while, he simply kept gulping down the air as he threaded the water, slicking dark strands of hair back from his forehead to gather his wits.

When he opened his eyes, they cried emerald tears. As if the water had become him; as if it seeped through him so completely that it stole the very blood from his veins and marrow from his bones and replaced them with the pond.

It was sunny above the cold garden. The mountains and pine trees looming around and above him were alive with calls of birds, the bushes filled with rustling of small rodents going about their day and a calm rhythm of hooves as a herd of mouflons feasted in the nearby clearing. Certainly a beautiful day; much too beautiful to be embarrassed about a few good-natured willow warblers laughing from the shore at his plight, and so he wasn't.

He simply wiped at his eyes to rid of any residue water and swam to a big flat rock, on top of which he flopped comfortably and took to removing his soaked boots, a quiet melody on his lips already chasing out the scare.

It was truly a beautiful day, after all - and he had a story about a lonesome rusalka who rebelled against the traditional expectations for her career to work on.

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

"It's raining," said Moomin. Snufkin hummed.

"It truly is, Moomin," he replied, but made no move to look up or even open his eyes. He laid spread over Moomin family's drawing room carpet, for once quite content to join his best friend inside the house, as his reddish paws rested folded over his belly and his head laid cushioned in Moomin's soft lap.

Said Moomin kept absentmindedly running his paw through the nomad's hair, watching the raindrops chasing each other down the window-pane. Snufkin may have not seen them, but he heard their joyful rhythm clearly. Flicking an ear, he lazily enjoyed the concert.

Moomin, on the other hand, apparently wasn't in the mood to lay about today. The slight whine in his voice confirmed as much. "But it could be raining for ages, Snufkin. Maybe even forever! Those clouds look so heavy and thick! And I so wanted to go swimming today..." After all these years, Snufkin recognized the despairing boredom that threatened to overcome his dear friend. If something did not happen soon enough to snatch the young troll's attention, he would probably join Little My in sending chaos upon the whole household. Luckily for the both of them, however, he also had a splendid plan ready to chase it away. Almost as splendid as Moomin's heroic plots usually were, he dared to think; as silly as they sometimes turned out be.

Not opening his eyes still, he let out another quiet hum. "It could, Moomintroll. Perhaps the whole valley will fill up with water and we will have to live in the sky," spoke the Mumrik calmly. "Maybe the rusalka that lives in the mountains will move into this house, then, since it will be underwater, and spend her days of retirement here. I should think she would love Moominmamma's garden."

He felt Moomin's legs twitch as the young troll gasped. "Rusalka from the mountains?" came the expected rushed reply and Snufkin abstained from grinning. Alas, Moomin's mood was saved. "What is a rusalka? And why does she live in the mountains? And where? And how can she live under the water? And how do y-" Snufkin couldn't stop the soft laugh that escaped his lips, patting now very much excited Moomintroll's ankle with his paw. "Now, now, my dear friend. Slow down, will you? Why, you are basically jumping while sitting down!" It was the truth. Moomintroll made a herculean effort to settle down a bit, stilling his flailing hands and placing them back into Snufkin's hair. Still the Moomin could not help it but wiggle with a giddy energy. It made the Mumrik feel something incredibly warm settle in his stomach.

"Right!" said Moomin, quieter, trying to keep his wiggling limited to his toes and feet as to not jostle the Mumrik further. "But Snufkin, what _is_ rusalka? Have you met her? Does she like vegetable gardens? And- oh! Isn't she horribly lonely up in the mountains? Not that there is anything wrong with wishing to be alone, of course! Nothing wrong with that at all, and I understand completely, I just-" Snuffkin guessed that Moomintroll must have physically stopped his rushed rambling because one of his paws left Snufkin's hair quite suddenly and immediately after a tap of something soft could be heard. Then, spoken half in a whisper, half in a stifled giggle: "Sorry, sorry! Slowing down!"

Snufkin finally opened his eyes to glance up at his Moomin. The soft face above him was glowing with excitement, the chicory blue of his eyes sparkling even in the dimness of the room. Ever so bright and twice as earnest, Moomintroll looked as if he was genuinely ready to meet this mysterious creature he has never heard of before and befriend her over gardening. He probably would. And, Snufkin realized, he would probably succeed, too - just as he did with most everybody else. Asocial vagabonds included.

The warmth in Snufkin's stomach turned into a wave of affection that flooded his veins so suddenly and completely, it felt as if he was trapped in yet another moment of Small Death. The most tender one in his life, one that inexplicably overcame him right then and there, in Moomin's warm, safe lap, with paws threading through his hair and raindrops drumming innocently against the window. He dazedly recalled the pond and how it seeped through him so wholly that he wept emerald tears afterwards. A thought entered his mind whether he will also be weeping chicory blue tears when this day ends. Surely his eyes and veins and lungs must have been so filled with that blue by now, he is ought to start drowning in it at any moment.

Instead of painful gasps and mocking laughter of willow warblers, this moment ended with a smile spreading his lips. If Moomintroll noticed that it was somewhat shaky, he was too considerate to mention it. His eyes however, albeit still smiling, were suddenly serious and so very, _insistently_ soft. Soft, and warm. Warm like no pond in the world could ever hope to be. Warm like a promise that didn't need to be given, like unequivocal loyalty and unconditional acceptance.

Warm like _home_.

As they held eye-contact, one of Moomin's thumbs came to rest right above Snufkin's brow and started to sweetly stroke the skin there. Snufkin took an unsteady breath, his limping heartbeat muffled through the sound of rushing chicory blue water. He was lying down, stable in his friend's lap, but his head spun. When he spoke, his voice came out fragile and crackled like burning birchbark.

"Well." The thumb above his eyebrow never ceased its tender strokes, and his eyes fluttered closed.

"Would you like to hear a story, then?"


End file.
